Forbidden
by amazinglilli
Summary: District 10 is suffocating for 17 year old Marigold Chaucer. Dust and cattle envelop their entire lives, trapping them all in abusive hard labor and too many children from arranged marriages. With over 50 slips in the bowl, she really had no chance. She will try to come back, for her six siblings at home, but with two men vying for her love in the arena, it may more complicated.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: All of the characters in this fanfic are my own, but it exists within the world of Suzanne Collins and the Hunger Games trilogy.**

 **I've been working on this one for a while before publishing it on the site and it has my heart within its soul, so please, enjoy. Reply. Tell me what you think and rush me if I'm taking too long to come up with the next chapter. I swear, I don't mind. It helps to know you care.**

* * *

The large blue water in front of me flows onto the soft land before my toes. The sun shines down on me delicately, covering every part of my body, its rays turning my light brown hair almost blonde.

I've never done anything like this before. The only water around here comes from the river at the edge of district, and no on is allowed in it, not that I haven't tried. I've always loved the idea of water. It's just so interesting. Everyone always says that I should have been from District 4. The only water we see here is what's in books and baths.

I giggle a little as I slowly step forward and the thin water laps over my toes. I continue to move forward until it sways at my knees. My smile grows with each step I take and soon I'm running into the wet liquid. I spin around with my arms out, almost like a giant pin wheel. I fall onto my back and the water lifts me above its surface, my hair swimming around below me freely. A small little fish swims over to me and tickles my toes. I laugh. I stand up, the water now above my waist, and slowly lower my head into the wet. All different kinds and colors of fish swim around me in perfect harmony. It's beautiful. It's unlike anything I have ever seen before.

I stay under for a while just looking at how they move, but eventually I come up. My eyelashes are weighed down by the water, so I quickly close my eyes and press the water from them.

When my eyes flutter open, the first thing I see is the sky. Its purple and pink swirls slowly fade into blue as the day peeks onto the horizon. I'm home. I slowly moan as my body wakes up, but then go quiet. The sun comes into focus and its delightful rays shine down onto my chill skin. Sleeping in the middle of an empty field wasn't the warmest idea, but it's a tradition.

Every year, the day before the reaping, they close everything down early so that the district can get some sleep before having to endure the frightful morning ahead. It was the day before Willow's first reaping and she was terrified. My brother, Oxford, had tried to tell her that her odds of her getting picked were as little as they could get, but that didn't seem to calm her nerves. Keld and I thought of everything that could possibly make her feel better, but we were at a disadvantage considering we hadn't even experienced the fear ourselves yet. It wasn't until I suggested sleeping in the fields that her face lit up. I had said it as just a joke, but I was in no position to deny her the only happy moment she had all week.

It was not that hard to get in. All we had to do was make sure not to draw attention to ourselves and climb over the fence, bringing a burlap sack to buffer the barbed wire. We had done way worse many times before. It was dark and the moonlight twinkled onto each piece of grass unlike I had ever seen before, like magic. Keld and Willow saw it too. We all found a bald spot in the grass together and just laid there, listening to the beautiful silence of the district.

The next year, when it was the day before mine and Keld's first reaping, we came back. Once again, we sat under the moonlit sky and watched as the stars popped out from the dark blue night. Together it was not as scary. Together we were not alone.

My body is curled up next to Keld's, my head resting on his warm broad chest. I slowly circle my thumb along his thin cotton shirt and continue to gaze up at the sky. I cannot move the rest of me. Willow's head lays in the crook of my knees, the ends of her natural red hair tickling my legs. Her pale eyelids lay perfectly shut as she continues to sustain her endless slumber. She has never had a problem with sleeping.

I remember the time we snuck into one of the farms late at night to retrieve her locket. It had accidentally fallen off when she put her hair up to practice milking cows at a field trip that day. I asked her why she didn't go back for it when she realized it was gone, and even though I didn't believe her reason, I went anyways. We were halfway to the room when a light poked out from across the dark barn. Our eyes grew big as we searched around for somewhere to hide and we ducked behind a large pile of grains. We knew that if a peacekeeper found us, we would be dragged out by our hair to the whipping post. Trespassing into the farms, after hours, is illegal. We both stayed there quietly as he inspected the room for an hour. By the time I turned around, Willow was snuggling a bag of grains like a pillow—totally asleep.

I smile slightly and Keld begins to move under me. His dark brown eyes blink tiredly before directing themselves towards me.

"Good morning," he grins.

"Good morning," I smile back. It is a beautiful day. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay," he sighs. He moves up so he is resting on his lifted elbows and I move accordingly, so that I don't wake Willow. My head still lays on his chest and he kisses the top of it. He smiles. "What time is it?"

I look up at the sky just enough to see the last glimpse of purple before the never ending blue consumes it.

"I'd say around seven, maybe six thirty."

He puts his arm around me, and I fix myself before settling back into his warm chest. I'm still a bit chilly. His warm body acts like a stirring fire against, warming my body and flushing my cheeks. Willow shifts a few minutes later, the drug of sleep releasing from her body. She sits up and I soon do the same. She runs her nimble fingers through her long smooth red hair and rubs her well-rested eyes.

"Um, I slept good," she moans, gently.

"You always do," Keld and I laugh.

She frowned. "Well it was still good."

* * *

I creep into the house quietly, making sure to put pressure on the door so that it doesn't squeak like usual. Everyone in the house is asleep. Oxford lays on the couch. His mouth sits open as he releases mild snores. My parents are in their room with baby Eve, the other boys in their room, and the girls in ours. Aroa always loves the night before the reaping because she gets her own bed for a night, not having to share it with me. She is the only one that knows I sneak out, although I have my suspicions that Oxford is catching onto the whole charade.

I tiptoe across the room to our small kitchenette and fill a few pots with water before setting them to boil. I then move over to the adjacent corner of the room, slide the makeshift sheet wall that hangs from a sort of indoor clothesline to hide the tub, and fill it up halfway with water from the sink. I grab a towel from the tiny little bathroom and set it next to the half full tub. The water starts to bubble on the stove so I quickly pour it into the chill bath, making sure not to burn myself, and the water evens out to warm.

I drop my tired dirty blue dress from my body and let it puddle at my feet on the floor. I release my feet from the sandals they occupy and dip my toes into the water before settling my body into the liquid completely. Oxford starts to stir from across the room and I quietly reach for the homemade bar of soap, to wash myself.

It is such a relief to rid myself of the dirt and soil that previously lingered on my skin's surface. The sweet smell of Myrtle engulfs me. Soon, I submerge my head into the water and my long hazelnut brown hair swims around freely. I slowly lift my head up and out of the water, relaxing my arms on the edges of the tub. I stay like that for a while, until my fingers are noticeably shriveled. That is when I hear Oxford yawn and remove himself from the couch.

"Mari, are you done yet?" he moans, tiredly.

"Just give me a second," I reply, stepping out from the now cool water. I tentatively wrap the towel around me after making sure to dry my wrinkled toes. My long wet hair drips on the floor a little as I make my way past his shirtless form. "You may have to add some more boiled water. I think it's gone cold."

"Doesn't it always after you've taken your turn?" he jokes.

I tiptoe into my room to find Aroa fully awake and laying pleasantly in bed while Forsythia, the usual morning bell, is practically knocked unconscious. I smile sweetly at her young innocent face. Long blonde curls lay almost stuck to her forehead.

"Oxford is almost done with his bath," I say, looking toward Aroa.

"It's all the same to me. I might as well not clean up at all," she pouts, and I give into her pull for attention, a stubborn sullen look tugging at her lips.

"And why is that?"

"My first flowers spoiled my dress last year, the only one not permanently stained with dirt that I own," she insists, turning her face away from me, relishing her gloom.

I smile simply at her. "I think I have something. Just go wash up," I suggest. "I'll help you with your hair."

She sighs, "Okay," walking out the door with a limp.

The room is a faded mauve color, the paint chipping and yellowing like old tattered wallpaper. The furniture all belongs to different sets of hand-me-downs from family members. My great grandmother's old mirror hangs over the dresser on the wall. It's a small little thing. Its circled edges are bordered with floral molding. The mirror itself has not been cleaned in years. Dust and smudges cover the reflective surface so that one can only see clearly through the middle of it. I look into the bright hazel eyes reflected in front of me. They stay wide open with fear as I glance at their sparkling specks.

I take a deep breath. _This is my first year without Oxford._

Just the thought of it makes me nervous.

My dresser is easier to open than usual. The rotting wood has stopped its slow deterioration for the summer, all moisture being absent from the air at the moment. I lift the drawer and pull it towards me, the insides hitting together as I do, pulling out a dusty old dress that hasn't seen the light of day since 365 days ago. I lay it out on the bed and move back to the drawer, rummaging around for the proper undergarments. My typical flimsy well over-washed lace will not do. I secure the pale pink bodice around my ribcage and pull the loosened elastic up my shoulders, allowing the subtle wiring to hold up its belongings in the proper manner. It matches my dress and underwear.

The long drips of my hair endings still trill onto the faded lace from my cleavage as Aroa's damp steps traipse along the dirty hard wood, leaving mild puddles of dust and mud in her wake. She sits on the bed, running the tattered cloth along her legs before tying it up in her hair, revealing her nakedness.

"So, what is this magical dress I seem to have never heard of," she says, bitterly, but I ignore her tone and purse my lips, walking back to my dresser and pulling out the newest thing I own.

It's a rose hued dress, the soft flattering fabric reaching just below one's knees. It tapers at the waist and hugs one's breasts at its side seams modestly to a wide but high scooped neck along the collarbone. It's entirely perfect, a pair of pale pink pointed heels sitting in my bottom drawer, smooshed tightly into the crannies of my other comparatively tattered clothes.

"Where did you get that?" she gasps.

I smile, holding it out in front of her. "Mama bought it for me for the party next week," I explain. "Her and Papa have been talking to Columbus' parents about him courting me this summer, considering he already has a job set up at the Butcher House and is set to inherit his uncle's wash shop in his old age."

"He must really like you," she laughs, taking it into her hands. "This fabric must have cost a week for Papa."

I smirk a bit and fish out a pair of undergarments for herself. "He's just a friend," I assure. "But, I can't live here forever. Eve is going to need my bed soon enough, unless you want it to be the four of us sharing this room."

"Won't Mama get mad at you for giving it to me?"

"Probably, but I can handle it. Plus, it'll bring out the pink in your cheeks," I say, pinching them slightly. She scowls mildly and steps into the dress, my fingers pulling the crisply sewn zipper up her back. She is beautiful.

I step into my own dress, the black tulle underneath swishing on the ground as I step both feet into its waist holding, pulling it up my legs. The hem hangs a few inches above my knees as I flush my arms into their slightly fluffed elbow-length sleeves, the entire thing ridden with tiny pink azaleas and their corresponding stems. I press the neckline to my chest as she secures the matching upholstered buttons, holding the fabric flush to my body, watching as it secures over my waist and subtle cleavage.

I pick a single daisy from the plant Willow and I dug up from beyond the fence, roots and all, three years prior, keeping it next to my window to flourish under the district sun, using a pin to secure it behind my ear. I look in the mirror again and sigh slightly, still not able to get the worry off my face.

 _What if I get picked?_

I take another deep breath and think back to my first reaping. Oxford told me that I had nothing to worry about, that he was going to be in the crowd waiting for me. That's not going to happen this year. Even though I'm 17, this being my fifth reaping, I'm terrified. The thought of him not being there makes my mouth go dry.

Forsythia gets up and toddles over to my parents room with her little rag of a blanket in hand, leaving the door open a crack, the hum of chatter from the kitchen drifting into the room.

Aroa sits down on our bed with her legs crossed nervously, waiting for my delicate fingers to intertwine with her hair. I grab a large section of hair from above her ear and begin to braid her hair into a across her forehead and around her head, almost like a crown, twisting her thick light brown hair between my fingers, leaving only fly-aways to grace her un-freckled neck. It's nearly dry by the time I'm finished, leaving her doe eyed and blushing. She gets up and looks in the mirror. I don't think I have ever seen her this happy.

I smile at her from above. "You look beautiful," I say.

She turns to me. "You do too. Everyone in the district thinks so. You should hear all of the boys at school."

"Well, you should hear all of them after today, after seeing you," I tease, pulling her back to the bed for a couple of finishing touches. I pinch her cheeks lightly and rub a strawberry I snuck from the market the day before on her lips, turning them both sweetly pink. "Mama and Papa will have too many discussions of courtships to count with you."

She laughs and I pull her into a small hug before parting to the kitchen.

 _Oh, how I hope things go well today._

* * *

It's almost time for the bell to ring as Willow steps through the door. I rush over to her for a quick hug. Hilt and Remy walk out of their room now fully dressed. They wear matching brown corduroy pants with beige button-up shirts and rolled up cuffs. Remy's light brown hair swoops slightly to the side so that it is partially in his face. His dark brown eyes show almost no emotion. Hilt's face looks ashen. He's a bit worried about today. It's his first reaping. Both of them sit down at the small table to eat their boiled oats.

I walk over to Hilt. "You look very handsome," I say, trying to cheer him up. He smiles only slightly at my comment.

I lean over his hanging head and wrap my arms around his sagging shoulders. My chin rests on his long dark brown curls before leaning down to kiss the top of it. I hug him closer as I feel a tear fall from his face onto my forearm.

"I know your worried," I whisper, softly in his ear. "But you have nothing to be anxious about. Nothing is going to happen." I kiss his head again to reassure him. He intakes slightly, trying to hide his worry from me. I swing my head around so it's in the crook of his neck and my eyes are staring at his. "I'll make sure of it."

He continues to eat his boiled oats in silence.

I lean both of my tired elbows on the table now pulled in front of the couch for breakfast, and steal a few bites of Oxford's ration of oats. He stands in the corner of the room, talking to Willow. His golden hazel eyes look onto her longingly, but hers cannot even glance towards his. It's too hard. She knows better than to give into his hidden wishes.

* * *

It was an especially sunny day in the district. Everyone was dripping sweat and fanning themselves with whatever they could find lying around. It was dreadful. Willow and Oxford held hands, despite the scorching heat making his hand's grip cover her dainty palms in a film of perspiration. The sun beat its rays onto both of them, pinking Willow's fragile scalp as they stood in front of the district's main milking barn. The two older grades always go to the main district settlements to research the different trades, even though most kids by that age already have jobs to help support their families.

The barn was hot and filled with tired sweaty people looking just about ready to pass out. A few of them did. Their unconscious bodies were carried out by the callused hands of two other milkers. A few women walked around swatting the flies that seemed to buzz around each cows buttock. Everyone grabbed a large metal bucket, pushed their sleeves up, and pulled back their hair before draining the cow in front of them.

By the time they stopped it was time to go home for lunch. Everyone in the barn filtered out and headed home for their meal break. She reached to toy with her necklace, like she always does when she's bored, and it wasn't there.

She made her way back into the barn. The entrance hallway was dark and dry, not a soul in sight. There was a loud creak that startled her. She looked around, but saw nothing. She heard the creak again. It was coming from a nearby room. A door was propped open a few inches. Curious, she stepped towards it and saw Oxford up against the wall, kissing the neck of a girl whose limbs were wrapped around his waist.

Her eyes welled up with tears, but she tore them away from the heartbreaking scene. And, with that, she ran as fast as she could to my house, waiting hours for me to come home in the scorching heat, dreading the alternative.

She was numb by the time I found her, eyes pierced into the clouded air, watching each particles movement in stillness, even the sweat stopping cold on her skin. I tried to comfort her, but she would not tell me what happened. We just sat there still, waiting for a breeze to grace the air.

The next day Willow walked to school alone.

Everyone stood in their lines in the yard before the peacekeepers opened the doors, like usual. Her hair was braided up, but he still noticed her red flickers, weaving from his spot to her within the blind spots of those in white.

"Hey, why didn't you wait for me this today?" he asked, in hushed tones, concerned. "I thought something happened to you. You disappeared yesterday and Mari wouldn't tell me anything. I was worried out of my mind." He stood in line beside her, looking foreword, but reached for her hand.

She pulled away. "We can't do this anymore," she said, wiping a tear from her cheek, discreetly.

"Do what?" he said, innocently confused by the situation.

"You can't keep courting me. I'm done," she said, following her line into the building, peacekeepers on both sides of the entrance, but he still slipped in behind her, getting dirty looks from the students around them.

"Why? What's changed? Tell me what to do," he begged, in a whispering tone.

"Nothing," she choked, almost silently. "I saw you in the barn yesterday."

His face fell immediately. He knew exactly what she meant.

"Look, it meant nothing to me. She means nothing to me," he insisted, sliding into the desk next to her, leaving a girl with a bouncy ponytail anxious and standing. He reached out to hold her hand and this time she didn't resist, too exhausted.

"That's what worries me," she said, softly, not lifting her eyes from the recently sanded rotting over wood. "The fact that being with someone else _like that_ means nothing to you."

"That's not what I meant," he sighed, softening his voice. He was falling apart right in front of her.

"Being with each other, it shouldn't be like this. You shouldn't have to cheat—"

"I don't. I never should have done it. It was a mistake. Please, don't do this!" he pleaded.

"We're just not happy," she pleaded, eyeing the peacekeepers at the doorway. They were staring at her.

"I am happy."

"No, you're not, and that's okay," she said, still anxiously watching as they approach him them, dragging him from his stolen seat, pulling him out by his arms as he tried to assure her of his love, screaming. "I forgive you."

* * *

The bell rings and I can feel a gulp in the throat of everyone from the district, all in unison. I take a deep breath and pat my skirt nervously. My father comes up behind me and kisses my cheek reassuringly.

He's a tall man with light skin and buzzed dark brown hair. His body is toned and his broad shoulders keep his back straight, despite his hours bent over at the farm. He's almost never home because of it, working sunrise to sunset to support us. His eyes look like muddy dollops left on his face. When I was little, he used to joke that they were like that because he craved too much chocolate as a kid. He wears a white button-up shirt and large khaki pants secured with a deep brown belt.

"You'll be fine. You've always been my strong girl," he smiles. His strong arms wrap aground my torso. "Watch out for your siblings and we'll meet you here afterwards."

I nod. "Okay."

The twins walk slowly towards the door, like any sudden movement might trigger an explosion, Aroa's almost cheery expression from earlier gone. Their heads hang and blank expressions occupy their faces as her and Remy leave. Hilt still sits at the table.

"Come on, bud," I say, persuading him to follow our predicted path. He takes a deep intake of breath and slowly rises. His mouth lays in a grim line, trying not showing his horrid emotions. He's scared. We all are.

I reach, in silence, to hold his hand. He glances at our interlocked fingers and I can see him visibly relax.

Dirt flies around the unpaved road like a whirlpool. It sticks to our skin like plaster and dirties our best clothes.

It always does.

Anxious children of all ages surround me, biting their nails and squeezing each other's hands, numb with fear. Willow and I walk towards the Main Square with Hilt beside me, staying close.

Her face grows even paler as the wind hits its surface, head on. The strands of her long naturally red locks spread as it flows through the weightless air. The open back of her pastel pink dress parts like curtains on a perfect sunny day. Elastic between the fabric synchs her waist together perfectly. The hem flitters up and down around her knees.

Keld is sitting on the steps of his house, his bent legs resting on the aging wood beneath him. Every crack in its exterior is filled with sand and underbrush. A large porch stands tall by the front door with Keld's hammock taking up half of it. He lets his mother take the bedroom. It's been hard ever since his dad was killed. A bull beat out his lungs to death when Keld was only ten years old.

Four years ago, his mother got sick. No one knows what it is, still. Her bones grew soft and prominent. Her skin became thin as paper. She limped when she walked and lived in pain. Last year it got really bad. He didn't leave her side for a month. She was one of the few in the country that were allowed to stay home for the reaping. That's when they finally had to scrounge up enough money for a doctor. She's getting better, finally back to just her regular limp.

His hands are knotted at his mouth, hiding his slacked lips. He wears dark green coteries and a grey button-up shirt with pushed up sleeves to show his toned arms. As we get closer, I can hear the mild moans from inside. He looks up and sees us, waving slightly in our general direction before going to hug his aching mother goodbye. A friendly neighbor is walking her down later.

"Hey. How is she?" I ask, as he makes his way towards us.

He sighs. "Okay. There's definitely been better days, but she's good enough to come, this year."

"Baby steps," I say, encouraging him to stay positive.

He smiles slightly and gives me a hug, something I greatly need. I don't let it show, though. Hilt is still right next to me, though his hand has drifted away.

"Hey, Hilt. How's it going?" Keld asks, scuffing up his hair playfully, trying to lighten the mood and direct the conversation away from himself.

"Okay," he lies.

"Yeah, you don't have anything to worry about. You're name's only in there once. You, my friend, just get to sit back afterwards and enjoy the party. I saved you each a chocolate for before we head over to Reed's house. A bunch of kids from school are invited," he says. "And so are we," he adds, smiling wide, really trying to sell it.

Hilt's lips split slightly as well and I take a deep breath. _Thank G-d._

* * *

 **A/N: I tend to make reference to some of my minor characters in my other fanfics (and vice versa) so that you can get a better sense of who they are, so** **feel free to check out** ** _Clove_** **or** ** _Innocent In Water_** **or** ** _Flightless Birds_ if you want more.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I've altered the first chapter a bit since its initial publication, so if you are one of my original followers, you might want to go back and read it again. It's just a few minor details, but I plan on connecting back to them in later chapters.**

* * *

The Hall of Justice isn't really much of a spectacle within the district. I'm sure during its construction it was meant to be, a large stage and podium constructed almost to look as a focal point for the area, a base of dust and dirt large enough to hold the whole district population behind its steps. But its reinforced brick walls haven't been more than dusted since its construction after the Dark Days. It's only really used on Reaping Days, with exception of whippings and hangings. The more established Downtown area is set near The Stalls, The Harvest Festival spread out among its cobblestones, music and dancing spread out all along Main Street.

I didn't even bother polishing my feminine loafers before setting off, knowing that the dirt would gladly stick to their licked completion as soon as I stepped from my door, something that would horrify most of the women in the district. They usually look down towards me anyways. I wear pants and low-cut blouses in public. I run alongside the boys in their ball games that bounce through Downtown, my hair tied back with a few sweaty tendrils hanging in my face.

The square is filling up, but a wave of people still step behind me, flowing into the sidelines to watch their sons, daughters, neighbors and strangers be drawn into certain death while they watch, faces numb and hearts enraged, celebrating later on the cobblestones of downtown that it was not themselves.

Five single-file lines stretch from the bottle-neck of people at the entrance to the street where I stand, giving their fingers and a drip of blood to a peacekeeper to smudge on parchment for attendance. They're making sure no one tried to escape again, though it happens every year. With the second-highest tesserae rate and second-lowest population the odds are never in our favor. You might as well run. Their bodies will be brought back limp and lifeless within the week, thrown into the center of the square we stand in, tugged away weakly in the dead of night by family members crying too hard to do so efficiently, buried in a hole in the meadow, too scared to be questioned as an accomplice and possibly hung themselves. There's only been one exception.

I hug Hilt tight to my chest, wiping my pricked finger on my forearm, his face buried in the black floral fluff of fabric as I kiss the top of his head, closing my eyes tight and praying to God not to take him.

"I'll see you at home," I say, wiping the tears that prickle the corners of his eyes, my eyes wide to avoid the same, trying to be brave enough for both of us.

"Don't worry, Mari," Keld assures, his hand on my shoulder. "I've got him."

I know he does. He would sacrifice himself, his mother dependent on him and a whole life ahead of him, for my brother. Oxford would have done the same when he had the chance.

I tug Keld into a hug as deep as I can manage, my arms wrapped around his neck like a child's safety blanket. I squeeze him harder to keep the tears away. I squeeze him harder to stay strong as the minutes tick by, his hands around my waist, kissing my cheek. Willow gives him one as well when I let go, Hilt grasping the gravity on my face. I wave goodbye with a reassuring smile as they walk towards their side, Keld with his arm protectively around Hilt. , and start off towards the girls with Willow

Willow and I start out towards the girls side when we see a group of our friends, inevitable in a district our size.

I see his hazel eyes and subtle charming grin from a few yards away and smile, a film of stubble growing from the sides of his temples to the dimple of his chin. "What are the chances? Mari Chaucer and Willow Rowland together on reaping day?" he teases, as always.

"Very funny, Jedidiah," I smirk, looking towards the two people behind him. "I could say the same for the three of you."

Breccan stands to his right, dark brown hair deeply parted to the side and hanging limp at his shoulders, beautifully captivating rare blue eyes sitting beneath his trimmed bushy brows. I used to have a crush on him our second reaping year, tucking his hair behind his right ear with a shy smile, giving me a hug that envelops my entire being while saying "hello," almost privately, never one to be loud-spoken. The cotton of his dull checkered shirt is work at the elbows, folded up in the heat like most men in the district, tucked into a pair of khaki pants.

Columbus and his sandy blonde hair swing to Willow's side, putting his arm around her shoulder while looking at me, the gaze of his subtle brown eyes glowing ever-so-slightly as he laughs about the irony of last night.

A loose board fell from the window of the apothecary downtown last night while playing kick-the-ball with a few guys from school. They almost knocking out Jedidiah's front teeth, causing a bloody nose and possible head injury instead, having to actually be taken to the healers at the apothecary.

"Oh, really? Let's see how you feel next time when it happens to you," Jedidiah jokes, smiling with scrunched eyebrows, swatting at Columbus' sewer green button-up shirt, tucked into brown corduroys.

"Smart of you to admit to the crime beforehand, of course," I beam.

"Hey, I can think of a few things the two of you have done that aren't exactly genius. All legal, of course," he winks.

Willow perks her right eyebrow up at that, jokingly claiming "Always," though we all know it isn't true.

"I beg to differ. I think it was brilliant to convince Jonah that all of the eggs from his chickens had chicks in them, not just the ones the roosters got frisky with," Columbus snickered. "I mean, he freaked out when we made omelets at his house." He laughed, almost on his knees, "Wait, or telling Thessaly that cows are ticklish."

"She should have known better about that one," Breccan suggests, smiling a bit. "Her family is milkers as far back as it goes. If you have to be wary about their utters, why just go for the tush with no questions asked."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't the most original idea," I admit. "It was _you_ and Lachlan that had me do that in third grade. The cow nearly chased me back into town before I verged right and climbed the fence."

"The first of many times, I'm sure," Jedidiah smirks.

We all say our goodbyes, that we'll see each other at the parties later, the obvious not exactly said or spoken, but thought, always looming. Willow and I weave through the crowd of chattering girls in our age group, wanting to get towards the middle and disappear from the cameras the press on all around us, capturing everything from the "exciting ceremony" about to start.

I look behind us, trying to find my parents and Oxford off in the sidelines, but they must also be lost in the crowd. It's not an uncommon thing in District 10 to not want to be seen. We just aren't those type of people; always stoic and soft-spoken. Or at least that's what they say while trying to sell us for slaughter during the interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

Peacekeepers smack the buds of their guns against the concrete stage and the entire square goes silent. They march into formation as the mayor appears from within the womb of the Hall of Justice, the anthem playing scratchy like an old record they tell us about in school. His head is shaved, like Papa's, and facial features chiseled, but he wears a blue suit we could never afford, even if he sold me to the highest bidder at the Hob like some families do with their daughters when they're desperate.

Next are our past Hunger Games victors, dressed in more expensive versions of the crowd's reaping clothes, spent with their bloody money that remains no-good to those of the Capital, still seen as less-than many of the victors from higher-ranking districts. Sure, we make a good show with our knives and butchery skills, but not enough to feed the starving that don't get picked for slaughter. I don't really know any of their names but Kylan and Lemuel. They're the only ones who have won within my lifetime. The rest file behind with looks like my own, the Capital escort, Ottilia, coming at the end with her knee-length straight black hair woven into tight braids on her scalp, skin flawless and caramel, a train of hand-sewn jewels resembling a dress flowing over the concrete, her hidden high heeled shoes clacking with each step.

Once the anthem ends, Mayor Goshen walks over to the podium and pulls out his speech cards. They're the same thing every year, even I knowing it by heart, but I know he dreads this part of the job as well, maybe favoring to drain it from his mind and read like new each year, never letting the sore seep in.

He begins to tell us the history of Panem, and by extension, the story of The Hunger Games.

"It was many centuries ago when the world as people knew it ended and the world we know today began. Water consumed the continent of North America and from it a new nation rose from the ashes; Panem, one large Capitol city surrounded by thirteen districts that all lived in peace and prosperity. Until the dark days." He pauses, flipping over his card. "War, terrible war. Widows, orphans, and motherless child's. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, solely won. The people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost, when the traitors were defeated we swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of generosity and forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future." He takes a long deep breathe and sighs. "Now to carry out this honor is our Capital Escort, Ottilia."

Ottilia rises from her seat and slowly walks to the podium. She taps the microphone and clears her throat lightly, more for dramatic affect, her pitch sounding more like a faint giggle. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favor." She pauses, letting her voice raise another octave. "Now the time has come to select one extraordinary man and woman for the precise honor of representing District 11 in the 73rd annual Hunger Games. Ladies first," she says, in her Capitol accent.

Her fingers swivel around in the bowl until she picks one of the perfectly folded cards.

Willow and I stand holding our nervous breaths close in our throats as Ottilia's hand fiddles around with the uncountable number of cards in the reaping bowl. Our hands push together until they almost become one as our eyes close, praying to God for it not to be us, but it is. I instantly freeze. I can hear Willow hyperventilating beside me, her hand now grasping mine even tighter than before, prying each finger individually away from my own. I'm still in a state of shock as I make my way through the crowd, my face plain and numb.

When I finally get up on the stage I glance at the mass of people in front of me with lost eyes, looking for something familiar to latch onto. I find my brother, Oxford, standing three rows back in the balcony, his hands holding his head and eyes pinching closed as he tries to grasp the situation, his baby sister thrown out for slaughter like the smallest calf of the herd during a harsh winter. Mama and Papa stand next to him, her screaming hysterically and his arms around her, pulling her weeping cries into his chest, fighting them off himself. It's the same every year with the parents. This year, it's just me.

It's then that it all becomes real, yet I still manage to hold onto my composure, taking silent breaths, eyes frozen on the movement everyone else in the square closes their eyes at, cringing, imagining themselves in my shoes, yet secure in their beds tonight, eating an annual sweet before bed.

There is no clapping, like in other districts. There are no cheers or happy optimistic celebration. Only the rolling wind and screams from my mother echo in the square, hushing to huffing whimpers as Ottilia reaches in towards this year's crop of boys, Peacekeepers staring her down. She smiles as she picks one from the middle, like she's sucking a piece of caramel from her fingertip, something sweet, and I almost vomit.

"Maceulis Bronte," she says, exposing her pearly whites and complete silence.

It's hard to pick him out from the crowd at first. The higher percentage of men in the district has made his section denser, but slowly the layers of anonymity peel away, realizing that it isn't their name, sighing in relief before awkwardly recognizing the boy left not as lucky.

He has short brown hair combed almost all the way through, a few stray hairs still sticking up in the back, and shallow bangs that hang over his untanned forehead. His skin is not sunburnt or tanned, puzzling me as he is practically pushes towards the stairs by Peacekeepers, his simple brown eyes glossy towards the corners. I recognize him, though I didn't know his name until now. He lives only a few streets away from my house, passing by every morning on the way to school. He isn't a merchant, but I wonder why his completion wasn't made aware of this, no tint or freckle in sight.

He doesn't look at me, hesitating to turn in my direction as Ottilia positions him so. I don't blame him. I'm not exactly thrilled by the position either, taking his solid hand in my own for a customary handshake before the crowd. My eyes drift towards my toes, self-conscious and very aware of the pity bestowed towards me. Cameras are already on me from every direction. The days to myself are over.

The Peacekeepers make a big show of coming up on stage to escort us into the Hall of Justice. Ottilia congratulates us at the podium, from behind, in her Capital accent that makes me roll my eyes.

I almost miss it, our mouths now away from the microphone, shoulder to shoulder as the doors open, no one around really looking at us, his voice deep and unwaveringly profound, a quote I was sure wasn't his, but I didn't know where to place it.

"I know. I was there. I saw the void in your soul, and you saw mine."


	3. Chapter 3

The air is livid with buzzing dust and static, heat pestering the windows and silent breeze kicking up dirt onto their panes. It rings like our televisions before and after mandatory viewings, the signal off but the machine not understanding, yelling in agitated tones at us, already damp in misery.

The walls are blue, dull and discomforted. Their hues deepen towards the bottom, dark and runny like houses after a rainstorm, from too much light fading the tops. The floors are dusted well, not a speck that I can see, like someone went over them at dawn with a broom and wet cloth; and I'm sure they did. Four square pictures sit equally spaced along the north side wall, three long push-open windows across from their simple parchment papers, the district's mayor's all photographed plainly, suits pressed and colored.

Everything is spotless. It's strange; like I'm already outside of 10, never seeing a clean table in my life for more than an hour, dust getting between everything here.

My mind wanders to the crisp white walls and floors and tablecloths, women painted purple and sparkled, but stop myself after one glimpse. I don't want to dream of the Capital, if one can even call it that. I don't want any part of it.

The door creaks open slightly and I turn my head towards the sharp noise, seeing only her dark eyes before the figure is shoved in fully with a masculine grunt from a peacekeeper behind them; Willow. She stumbles a few steps before falling into me, myself almost running towards her, my feet bare and silky on the mahogany, throwing my heels off in frustration after the first hour of waiting. Her hands are smooth against the skin below my neck and my eyes begin to water, her already in tears.

"Mari," she sobbed, her icy fingers the only thing holding me connected to the tangible world. "Please don't go." A tear fell from her eye to my shoulder and I felt its mild tickle as it fell under my dress and down my torso between the gaps of fabric. "Who's gonna braid my hair when I'm bored? Or keep my secrets from Keld? Or rhyme when I'm stressed, to keep me occupied? Or hold me like this when I'm scared?"

My voice hiccuped. "I'm scared too."

"But, you can't be," she squeezed, numbing my skin. "You have to come back. You have to be okay."

"I don't think I have a say in that, Willow."

"Of course, you do," she said, pulling me back to arm's length. I wipe a tear from my eye with my thumb, black running down her face from her own, the new powder mascara she bought last week for today. "You are the only person who can bring you home. You have to fight, Mari! You have to come back!"

"It's not only me out there."

* * *

I fall apart when my mother walks through the door; not because I need her as my mother, but I'm scared to not know who will protect her anymore, nursing her bruises after work, watching Eve when too fatigued to move. Aroa is brave, but not enough for what I've seen, bile rising in my throat as I see the slashes on her tights that tear through her stockings, denying what the barn manager thinks as his, what other let him take. Sometimes I wonder if when she's weaker she lets him and just closes her eyes.

My father holds Eve, and so I stroke her hair as she holds me, her eldest daughter, hand trembling and squeezing against my torso as we both cry. My father simply kisses my forehead, stroking my back in the gaps of her hands, tender but strong.

Foresythia does not yet understand. I wipe the tears from my eyes as I crouch down to her level, smiling through blurred eyes. In a few years, she won't remember me. She's just too young. She won't know the late-night lullabies or how I took her in a sling to The Hob when she could barely talk. She won't know my smile or the birthmark on my hand she thought was chocolate for an entire week last year. It won't hurt her at all.

She kisses my cheek, lips puckered and arms limp, but I hold on and scrunch my nose, pretending to nibble at her neck, making her giggle one last time, the force of it pushing me to the ground.

"This isn't goodbye," Oxford says, reading my mind from above. "This is only temporary. I'm sure I can manage until then. Remy and Aroa can help out until then, Hilt too. Donations should supplement the tesserae and Keld can show us how to get out to the fields."

"No!" I yell, eyebrows tense and defiant. "It's _my_ family time, Oxford, and I'm telling you I'm going to die."

He shakes his head. His jaw is solid and he is infuriating. I can't even look at him.

"Don't be stupid," I spit. "There are 24 of us in there, packed in like sardines with explosives."

"Don't say that!" Aroa says, out of turn from the corner, trying not to face me, afraid to look death in the face. She shivered at her own angry outburst, out of character yet passionate nonetheless. "You've killed livestock your whole life, know how to work the land, even broken Breccan's nose when you were 12. You don't know what you're walking into. You can't go in planning to lose."

"I'm just trying to make this easier," I sighed, emotionally exhausted.

"For who?" Oxford said, stopping me, hitting harder to the core.

"It was gonna happen to one of us, eventually," Remy says, quietly, eyes barely raised. "With seven kids and 100 tesserae between us, we never stood a chance."

"Remy!" Aroa yells, slapping him. But he's right. In a district this small, we've always been up for slaughter, worse odds than the cows some would say.

"It's true. That's what they want anyways. Our whole lives are played out for enjoyment, whether on or off screen, suffering in silence until we bleed to death in the fields."

My father grabs the back of his neck and yanks him forward, Eve now bouncing in my mother's arms, moments from sobbing, his voice low and lethal. "You know they can hear us. We're in the Justice Building."

"It doesn't matter anymore," he admits. "I'm sure they've set up cameras at our house by now. They always do."

"Where are you getting all of this from?" Oxford asks, confused as I am, but intrigued. _How were we missing so much within him from right below our noses?_ _Were we too busy buying up tesserae to see the target he was already drawing on his back in ink._

My stomach churned and throat twitched with vomit. Hilt looked the same, his skin white as a ghost we read in folk-lore when I was a child, before it was banned to the fires with the rest of our books, the Capital scared of our words and gospel we spoke.

"You don't have to go to protect us," he cried, but I know that I do. It's my job. It always has been. And so, I keep in my tears and hug them all goodbye, tucking a hair behind Aroa's ear and kissing Eve's shallow head of hair.

I don't know what will become of all of us, how old we'll all grow up to be, but promise to myself to try.

* * *

It's sweet that she came; Keld's mother. I haven't spoken to her except for through the doorframe for months. She didn't wanted anyone to see her in her condition unless legally obligated. It's left her lonely, one might think, years without seeing a face besides her son's, but she claims its given her reflection and peace with "G-d," whoever that is.

Her touch is tender but lingering. Her skin think like paper and pale, soft against my skin while stroking my arm in conversation. We talk about life and stories of her childhood and mine, only fondness and closed smiles.

Keld sits beside her in a blue paisley love seat, supporting her aching slouched back with his arm, though he doesn't say much, only adding a mild laugh or "hmmm" between the sparkling blue eyes and freckles of his mother. He looks at me too odd to mention, too awkward and disarming to say in a room with his mother, though it's understood. It must be the emotions of today, though something of its sort seems repeated, like he's done this before, watched something so tender having been peeled from between his fingertips before.

Her cane is simple, a strong branch of wood carved by Keld in the glint of moonlight, no doubt. It rests against the arm of the couch, the natural beauty reflecting her own, though disheveled over the years. Her nose pokes out slim and petite, to match her frame. Brown curls match his, usually waving long to her shoulders but now in a lowered ponytail. Her frail dress is of a similar hue, a baby blue wispy cotton frock with a stream of ruffles at the hem. Crow lines mark her eyes and laughs her mouth, but it's comforting and show the tenderness of her soul.

"You look the same as you did your first reaping," she says, a frail cold nimble hand against my cheek. It was only a few years prior that she used to teach at the school, braiding my hair on my way to school. Now, we both take the death march, both with scared and vacant eyes sparkling to hide our fear from the other.

I smile. "Thank you."

"Just like your mother," she adds. They were friends in school when younger, her brother taken as one of the four in the Quarter Quell their final year. The grief that followed never let them recover their drifting relationship, though they would often smile and wave from across the street in passing.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate you saying that."

I stand, sensing the end of their visit, steps growing closer from the other side of the door, and Keld pulls me in close to his chest. He is warm and I nuzzle in my face to his neck, letting his friendship hold and protect me momentarily. He kisses the top of my head softly, his arms around my torso like a jacket, and a tear rolls down my cheek, dripping to his skin as if an orphan.

"Take care of her," I say, mumbled into his shoulder, stroking his back for comfort, like a childhood toy.

He nods, never having to be reminded to look after others, I know, but it makes me feel productive in my pain. Because sometimes, even in the face of mortality, we feel selfish, for wasting the life we have but going before those that don't have much left at all.

* * *

My wet eyes lift up from their downward position as the door creaks open. Hope peeks from my belly and for a moment I think they're saving me; that I can just go home. But, that's a cruel joke and I remember where I am, the dreariness of waiting through dry heat fading away, and the world goes burry before coming back into focus.

"I'll be outside," he says, head low and eyes indirect, kissing my forehead before sealing the door behind himself; my uncle Brint. He leaves my aunt Melisa before me, eyes wide and damp, curly brown hair hanging just above her pregnant breasts and belly.

She's fairly young; 32 years old. Her skin still holds its shape, glowing under the sun, lightly freckled on her arms and cheeks. Her eyes are honeysuckle with two distinct specks, constant like constellations in the sky. Her voice is sweet and tender, as if speaking in song to a child in the middle of the night, every word purposeful and harmonic. She wears a simple white pleated cotton frock, the neck of the dress lacy against her collar bone and ankles beginning to swell as her stomach does as well.

We sit against the wall on the floor, a pillow beneath her feet as to keep them elevated, myself tired of the silky chairs and ornate table displays after looking at them for hours, spending at least 20 minutes between each round of tears and five minute serenade. My head leans against her shoulder in silence, hers then resting on mine, hands held and fingers interlocked.

"I can't believe I'm going to miss it," I say, eyes blurry and a tear dripping from my right eye. "Your first baby."

She shakes her head, wiping one from her own. "You were my first baby."

When she was younger, tuberculosis swept through the district, people holding rags to their mouths like rosary beads, bacteria painting the insides of their lungs like lead paint, coughing until out of breath and bloody. Her parents died in it, like many others did, taken in by my newlywed parents at 15 years old, witnessing my birth on her first night; the shortness of breath and fear repeated from my mother's eyes to hers in the darkness of candlelight. And when my mother went back to work, only two weeks later, she stayed home to take care of me and Oxford.

It's only been two years since Forsythia was born, since she married off and moved away.

"I fed you. And I bathed you. And I played with you. And I slept with you beside me. And I saw your first steps. And I walked you off to school on your first day," she cries, my own eyes unable to stop their flow.

And so, when she takes the long chain from her neck, I am shaking; a simple sterling silver chain thin as the yellowing grass inside the field that blows when cool, small off-white pearls spaced in groups of three throughout its length, just enough to see. She hangs it around my neck, lifting onto my shoulders as well before dipping slightly into the peak of my cleavage; my token.

I run my finger over the bumps of its texture, letting its steel-looking metallic form sit over the waves of my hair, not dare touching it from where she let it lay.

"You will always be my first baby."

* * *

I hear the door, but don't look up at first, the peacekeeper ushering him into my chill room with shaky hands and eyes too still for his quick beating heart, almost audible from across the room. I sit on the floor, grounded by the floor as a means of survival, my mind running wild, eyes wide and scared as they stare into the distance.

He leans shyly against the doorframe for a minute, brow furrowed and thinking of what to say.

"You look beautiful."

It's Jedidiah. I can tell by the lull in his gaze, how it paints on me and how his words stick firm at the end despite his nerves. He can see the death in me and it startles him.

"I hope it's okay that I came. I just had to."

I nod my head and smile slightly, bringing my eyes into focus, lifting my head to face him and his freshly trimmed brown hair, usually worn shaggy around his eyebrows now pushed back with his nervous fingers to rest in layers at the crown of his head. His eyes are hazel and beautiful, just as I remember them.

I slowly scoop myself from the floor and walk towards his figure. He shuts the door just in time for me to wrap my arms around his neck, nuzzling my head into his heart. He sighs, rubbing my back with tender circles, and I let out a shaky breath of my own.

"I just want time to rewind to yesterday," I say, eyes wide and frozen, comfortable and safe in his warmth.

We sit in the blue paisley love seat, the soft material flush against the underside of my legs as my dress rises slightly. I smile as we remember mischievous doings and feelings we shared, my head against his shoulder and cheeks raised with laugh lines. It's simple and sweet and just what I need, his whispered laughs always perfect for storytelling.

He looks down, his thick brows knotted in the middle, running his fingers through his hair at the moments that our setting catches up to him, trying not to cry, not to say goodbye. I do the same, tears materializing in my eyes but dissipating at his scent of dirt and musk and home.

His family requested for him to court me this upcoming summer, but Columbus presented a better offer, just a boy from a butcher family with glowing eyes and a smile that made my heart squeeze in terms of my financial future.

I hold his chin and bring his lips to mine; the ever-so-slight stubble that covers his jaw, his soft lips and tongue that takes my own almost in a waltz, stroking and taking turns in movement, the pulsing of his Adam's apple that I feel with my thumb as I knead his shoulder, his own at my waist. And once we both have memorized the other's mouth and soul, he parts, leaning his face down onto my shoulder, as if to kiss it as well, but doesn't. He just wallows in our first and last kiss, the disappearing girl before him, a shadow of death before of the mahogany walls.

I lift his head, hands supporting his neck as I play with the curls at the back of his neck and he smiles sadly, pressing one last kiss to his cheek to remember me by.

* * *

 **A/N: things have been so crazy at school. I've had a piece published in TeenVogue. I became co-editorial director of a huge fashion magazine on campus. And, I've been adding to this chapter and editing it chunk by chunk, deciding to release it as a whole. I don't think I'm gonna do that with the next, so it should be up quicker. So sorry. Please reply.**


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